


step toward me, step away

by Areiton



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Derek is Not a Failwolf, Hurt/Comfort, Jealous Derek, M/M, Second in Command Stiles, Stiles sleeping with other people, Underage Sex, Unhealthy Relationships, bed sharing, growing together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-23 15:18:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11992446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/pseuds/Areiton
Summary: The truth is, he’s been more than a little bit in love with Derek Hale for a long time.





	step toward me, step away

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first teen wolf fic I started---but then it stalled. I'm finally happy with it, so here we go.   
> Fair warning--this is a story about Stiles and Derek growing up. Before they do that, they hurt each other. A lot. Stiles makes some shitty choices. Stick with me--I promise a happy ending after they work through their angst and issues.   
> <3

***

 

Stiles loses his virginity to a junior, a girl a few months older than him with a wide smile and eyes that are a little bit scared. She’s soft and warm, all easy curves and wet heat and nothing hard or hot or demanding.

He fucks her and keeps his eyes wide open, the entire time, and later he’ll tell himself it’s because he lost his  _ virginity _ and that’s a big fucking deal, but it’s not.

It’s because whenever he closed his eyes, he saw someone else.

~~

They fought, before Stiles bolted, left the Hale house and the pack, left Scott and Derek and everything scary and monstrous and  _ not his _ behind, threw himself into a party and a girl and a life that he didn’t really want but couldn’t avoid.

He can’t even remember  _ what _ they fought about, after three beers and four kisses, but he can remember the look in Derek’s eyes, and the hard set of his mouth as he ordered Stiles to go home. It wasn't so much the scowly eyebrows and imperious orders from Derek that bothered him, so much as the sympathetic half smiles from the pack before they turned away from him.  

~*~

When it’s over, he creeps back and the pack doesn’t say anything to him as he curls up on the couch, in the corner that he always occupies, the one where he is wedged between the arm and Derek, and it smells like them, even to his human nose.

Erica eyes him, briefly, but she doesn’t  _ say _ anything, and he curls there and falls asleep halfway through  _ The Goonies _ .

When he wakes up, he can still smell the girl on his skin, and the sweet familiar scent of the pack on the blanket that someone—Derek—covered him with. He almost wants to be angry but he isn’t.

He curls tighter into the blanket and closes his eyes and doesn’t think about the girl at all.

 

***

 

Derek can’t actually remember when Stiles quit being Scott’s annoying little shit who wouldn’t leave and became… _ more. _

Hell, half the time Derek can’t even put into words exactly what Stiles is, much less name when that change happened. All he really knows is that somewhere along the way, between building a pack and all the dying and dead uncles coming back to life and life falling apart more often than it didn’t, there were very few things that stayed.

Scott didn’t even stay with Derek—he formed his own pack, and pushed Derek away, until someone’s life was at risk.

But Stiles didn’t. Stiles. Stupid, frustratingly fragile human boy with his bone deep loyalty and blindness to danger, with the  _ need  _ to protect and  _ help _ . The idiot had absolutely no sense of self-preservation and it was as infuriating as it was fascinating.

Derek only knows that one day, he found Stiles with Isaac, researching a druid ritual and it didn’t grate. Stiles in the midst of the pack, his human heart beating too rapid, his hands flailing—

That felt right.

**

Then it changed.

Stiles was bloody, gasping as he sprawled across Derek in the back of his ugly Jeep and even bloody and in pain, he was snapping at Scott behind the wheel, and his hands were moving on Derek, frantic, heart beating too fast, too fast, trying to reassure himself.

It took Derek three days—most of those sitting silently glaring at Stiles in a hospital bed—to figure out that Stiles had been  _ worried  _ about him.

Because with his guts spilling out, worrying about a supernaturally healing werewolf was the right move.

But that was Stiles, and Derek couldn’t argue with it because if he changed  _ that, _ he changed who the kid was, and he wasn’t willing to do that.

He loved who the kid was too much to do that.

*~*

It didn’t change anything.

It didn’t change anything, and it changed everything.

The fact was it  _ couldn’t  _ change anything. For so many reasons, nothing could ever change. 

Stiles was a human, weak and fragile and easily broken and so damn fierce it made Derek ache. He was a human boy who ran with wolves, and he would never be safe. But to be loved by an alpha? Especially one as damaged as Derek was--Stiles deserved better. 

Deserved a chance at something normal and safe and good, all things Derek could never give him. 

He deserved to be the child that Derek had never been. 

So everything changed and nothing changed and nothing  _ could  _ change. 

The pack could smell it, the want and the love that poured off him when Stiles grinned and flapped around the loft, annoying and perfect.

They never said anything, though. Sometimes, he'd  see the sidelong looks, but--nothing changed. 

 

~~~

 

Stiles couldn't remember when things changed. 

It was after the Alpha pack. After the nogitsune. After he spent some time in the hospital. And it didn't change in a drastic way. The full moon was more-- _ more _ . He watched them run, watched the joy and love in the pack, the way they circled him, trusting and protective.

It was nothing overt--but Erica was less hostile, and Isaac was more aware of his moods. Boyd didn’t change--he nodded, as friendly a greeting as he ever got or gave. The major change was Derek. 

He didn't yell less, or push Stiles around less. There was still a remarkable amount of physical violence and general menace directed at him. But it was... _ different.  _ It was gentled with a barely crooked smile, softened by a hand catching him before he actually slammed into a wall, affection tempering the scowls directed at him whenever he opened his mouth. 

He couldn't remember  _ when  _ it changed but he does know it happened and he knows what it means. 

The truth is, he’s been more than a little bit in love with Derek Hale for a long time. 

It was a slow thing broken up by life and death trauma and Derek leaving town, broken up by the almost unrelenting antagonism sprinkled through with saving each other’s lives. 

He couldn’t remember the first time he smiled when he saw Derek’s terse text message, the way his shoulders slumped with relief when he found him after a particularly harrowing threat, the kind of warm comfort he took in seeing Derek, silently brooding, eyes on him and Scott. 

He can’t remember when things changed. 

But he remembered when he got tired of the stalemate. 

~~

“Go home, Stiles,” Derek ordered, knocking his knee softly and Stiles had shifted, rolled his head to the alpha. This close, pressed into the corner of the couch that had become his, theirs, he can see the flecks of color, shifting and gorgeous, in Derek’s eyes, the furrow of his brow where eyebrows thickened into that fucking impressive scowl. 

“Nope,” Stiles says, burrowing deeper into the couch.

Derek snorts softly and rises, moving around the boy half asleep on his couch as Stiles watches with lazy interest. He doesn’t get to watch Derek much, what with all the running and screaming, the pack watching, the almost dying--puts a damper on the whole covert admiring. 

“Stiles,” Derek says again, a little firmer, and  Stiles grins, lets it stretch wide and loose and happy. 

“Is that a Alpha thing, the eyes in a back of your head?”

Derek gives him a dark stare and Stiles feels his heartbeat kick hard, knows damn well the wolf can hear it. He grins, all unconcerned and casual, and stretches lazily. 

“Go home,” Derek says, and this time his voice is a little raspy, a little uncontrolled, a hint of the wild peering through and it makes Stiles  _ ache _ with want. 

And it gives Stiles the courage to let go of the tiny bit of control, to give up what’s been bottled up for too long. 

“How long are we gonna do this?” he asks and Derek looks at him. He’s very still and tense. “I mean, if you can just tell me how long you wanna dance around it, we can work with that, I’d just like an idea.”

“Stiles.” It’s a warning this time, and it's amazing how much Derek can say with that one word, how much he  _ doesn’t _ say when he reverts to repeating it like this. 

“C’mon, man. Why--just. Why are we still ignoring it? How many times do we have to almost die before you make a move?”

Derek stares at him, and doesn’t say anything and Stiles feels the first smattering of fear, of  _ oh shit. _

“I’m not the only one in this,” Stiles insists, and Derek looks away. 

When he looks back, his face is set in pity, something Stiles has never seen on Derek’s face and he feels it like a rush, the embarrassment and fury, as Derek shakes his head, a wordless denial. “Just go home, Stiles.” 

For once, he does as he’s told.

~*~

It’s a week later, after they run off an omega and the pack is bloody and milling around the house, that they fight. Derek is bleeding, his side ripped open by the omega, and Stiles can actually  _ see _ the white of his ribs. 

It shouldn’t have happened. 

Stiles can feel his chest tightening, the sharp ache of panic, can feel his air getting short and hard to catch, panic clawing at him as he watches the betas taking care of themselves, as he watched Derek’s blood dripping on the floor.

Derek shouldn’t have taken the blow that ripped him up, from hip to armpit, with a wet tearing sound that Stiles can still  _ hear _ . “Stiles,” Derek says, startled, and the panic recedes, washed away by fury.

“What the hell was that,” he snaps and Derek looks at him, his face set in lines of pain and fury. And concern. 

“You’re bleeding.” 

“I do that,” Stiles shoots back. “Especially when idiots decide to ignore their pack and charge in to kill an omega on their own and I have to save their dumb ass.” 

“It’s not your  _ job _ to save me!” Derek yells, and it’s different from the times he’s yelled before, it does something that is so rare he sees the shock stutters across Derek’s face as Stiles goes still, utterly, painfully still.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Derek says, quickly.

“No,” Stiles shakes his head. Takes a step back. He’s aware, suddenly, of the pack outside this room, of their silence, and he’s furious, suddenly. “No, you’re right. It’s not my job.” 

He leaves and finds a pretty junior at a party and comes back to the house, smelling different, smelling like sex and regret and Derek doesn’t comment. 

But it changes things. 

 

***

 

Derek hates it. 

Not the kind of dislike he feels when Isaac stumbles in smelling like Allison, or the sharp scent of kitsune clinging to Scott--both of those are awful, but they are a distant sort of awful, the kind he can ignore if he chose. 

Stiles. 

Stiles comes in, hands and arms full of coffee and food and it doesn’t disguise the sweet scent of sex that clings to him. 

After the little junior, he seemed to come alive, or maybe that first girl talked, because he was suddenly never quite without an invitation into someone’s bed. 

Stiles always smells like blood and adrenaline or sex and liquor. 

And Derek  _ hates  _ it. 

**

“What is that?” 

The question is from Isaac, and something in his tone makes Derek’s head come up and Stiles pauses in the middle of twisting his head to look at Scott. He’s been at the loft for about thirty minutes, and the smell of sex is still clinging to him. New girl. That’s nice. Derek worries when he smells the same girl on Stiles too often. 

It should probably disturb him that he even thinks something that ludicrous. 

“What’s what?” 

Isaac moves, ‘wolf fast and Derek snarls, half shifting as the beta tips Stiles head back, bears his throat, and he can  _ smell _ the fury on his beta, which doesn't make sense, but--

The bruise is tiny, a small dark splotch on the pale underside of Stiles jaw and it stops Derek short. 

He can hear them whispering, hear Stiles’s voice, rising confused and angry behind him, but he doesn’t stop to reassure them, or to soothe the questions in Stiles. 

All he can see is the bruise, tiny but dark, on the Stiles’ jaw. The small claim of someone  _ else _ , someone who isn’t  _ him _ , and it’s driving home everything he knows, everything he’s always known.

Stiles isn’t his. Can’t be, won’t ever be. 

Stiles will belong to someone else and he can’t do a damn thing to stop that. 

He shifts and he runs. 

*~*

Stiles is in his bed when he comes home. 

The pack is gone, and Stiles is waiting for him, in his bed, slumped over and sleeping, like even his inexhaustible store of energy was finally tapped out by Derek’s running. 

And maybe it’s the wolf, running close to the surface, still, but Derek doesn’t make him leave. Doesn’t wake him at all. He slides into his side of the bed, tugs Stiles down until he’s flopped on his back like a graceless fish. 

If Stiles stirs, in the night, in his sleep, and wakes up curled in Derek’s arms--well, that is no one’s business but their own. 

 

~~~

 

Stiles goes to Deaton. Because when a werewolf problem arises, of course he goes to Deaton. The other choice is Peter and as much fun as parsing out cryptic bullshit is, dealing with megalomaniacal snark isn’t on the agenda for ever. 

Deaton eyes him. “When did I become the go to for supernatural relationship advice?” 

“I’m not asking for relationship advice,”  Stiles protests, hands waving dismissively, “It’s not a relationship. He can barely tolerate me.” 

“And yet he reacted violently when seeing you marked by another,” Deaton says, dry as bone. 

“It wasn’t  _ violent _ ,” because Stiles  _ knows _ violent, and this wasn’t, this, this was “It was avoidance. Run puppy run.” 

Deaton actually blinks and Stiles has a half second to hope Derek  _ never _ hears he referred to him as a puppy because he likes living, and really it’s a bad way to go, really.

“Stiles,” Deaton says, bypassing the puppy comment all together, and ok, he does love Deaton, he takes back everything he ever said about his non-answers and lack of helpfulness. “What do you know about wolves?” 

~~

In hindsight, it’s  _ ridiculous _ that Stiles didn’t research this. It’s literally in the name, and maybe it doesn’t apply to Scott--Scott was bitten and he’s adjusted to it, but he can push it aside, be more human than not. But Derek. 

Derek is a born werewolf, has lived with his wolf his whole life, lived as not just a family, but a  _ pack _ for the better part of his childhood. 

It was stupid to dismiss that part just because it wasn’t shoved in his face. 

And the more he researches, the more he gets it. 

The more he realizes--Derek wasn’t always broken, the way he is now. 

That so much of what he does is only a lonely wolf searching for home. 

*~*

The next time he goes out, the girl--a blonde this time, with sharp eyes that remind him of Derek’s and a smile that is as dangerous as it is intoxicating--turns to his neck and he pulls away. 

He slides down her body, kisses a wet path and distracts her with his fingers and tongue until she’s forgotten all about kissing his neck and when he comes, deep in her wet heat, she still hasn’t remembered. 

He goes back to the loft, after, and Derek is silent when he crawls in bed next to him, burrowing into pillows and blankets that smell like Derek. 

The pack doesn’t come in here and it occurs to Stiles that they should. 

“Is this ok?” he asks, and Derek shrugs. He’s watching Stiles, with that steady too knowing stare, and he wonders what Derek can smell on him.  _ Who _ he can smell.

“You don’t let the others in here,” he says. It’s as close as either has come to addressing this  _ thing _ between them, and he can’t look at Derek when he says it. “Why--”

He chokes off the question because he isn’t sure he wants the answer. 

Derek huffs a little, and it draws Stiles’ gaze up to him and his belly twists at what he sees. Derek’s eyes are soft and understanding and sad, this deep twist of emotions that makes tears burn in Stiles eyes, and he rubs them roughly as Derek whines. 

“They don’t belong here,” Derek murmurs, and Stiles makes a noise that’s half laugh and half sob and all broken. Derek draws Stiles into his arms, and Stiles twists, wiggling until they’re spooning, and he sighs, tension draining out of him as they fit together, every point of his back pressed against all of Derek’s front, and Derek’s nose is pressed into the skin of his throat, and he sleeps there, just like that.

 

***

 

A pattern emerges that Derek comes to rely on.  

Stiles will throw himself into every supernatural fray, will put himself between every danger that is posed against his friends. And in those moments, when they are almost dying, he is wholly present, assured of his place in the pack. He is brilliant and wise, and someone that Derek has come to count on, someone whose instincts he trust, sometimes more than he trusts his own. 

When there is a threat, the world makes sense, the pack feels whole and Stiles fits. 

It is when they can breath, when danger fades and normal filters in, creeping along the edge of their lives, that it shifts. That Stiles falters, stumbling over his place in the pack. 

That is, always, when he retreats, when he will disappear, words stalling in his throat before he vanishes. Sometimes it is for a few hours. Sometimes it is for a day or a weekend. 

Once, it was for a week, and Derek could feel nerves dancing under his skin, could feel the unhappiness of the pack as time stretched like taffy.

Then Stiles slipped back into the loft, like he'd never been gone, smile a little cautious, slipped into Derek’s bed like he had a right to it. 

**

The betas sleep in their own homes and, often, piled together on the mess of blankets in a corner of his loft. It's not strange to find any number of them there, tangled together. It's not strange to find their humans mixed in with them, Allison and Lydia and, on occasion, Danny. 

But Derek rarely finds his way to the puppy pile, and he can count on one hand the number of times Stiles stays there, instead of crawling free and meandering to Derek’s side. 

He used to think that it was because he was the alpha, and separate. As time passed and he realized how much he relies on Stiles, he thinks that being his Second sets Stiles apart, something the betas know even if it hasn’t--won’t--be spoken. 

But then, there is the simple truth. 

Stiles in his bed, instead of twisted up with the betas, feels right. 

*~*

The pack doesn’t like when Stiles stumbles in, clothes rumpled and smelling of sex. 

If Derek is honest, he doesn’t like it either. 

But he adores how Stiles acts, when he comes back. Careful and hopeful and hesitant, like he is unsure, of his place in the pack and Derek’s reaction. 

He knows that the wolves can smell the sex on him, smell a stranger, and he comes to them--to Derek--like that anyway, brilliant in his defiance and still nervous of his welcome. 

He always heaves a tiny sigh of relief, when Derek tugs him close in bed, burrows his head into the crook of Stiles’ neck to catch the clean untouched scent of him. 

He knows this isn’t fair, that Stiles deserves more than Derek can ever offer, that he’s taking something from the boy that isn’t offered to him, and sometimes it makes his stomach churn with guilt. 

But Stiles makes this noise, all pleased and anxious and his scent twists a little, goes bright with relief, and Derek holds him closer and tells himself it’s for the pack. 

 

~~~

The thing is--when you see the same thing every day, repetition makes it very hard to see  _ change.   _

He thinks that's why he notices, after a week spent in Poland with his dad and two more touring colleges. He comes home to the middle of a omega hunt and sits on the sidelines as Derek gives his orders to the pack. He watches while they lure the omega in, the almost effortless way they bring him down. 

He watches as Derek carries Isaac home and drains his pain, the way he fusses over the pack and lets them linger, close enough to touch, as the fight and victory settles over them and it hits him hard. 

He isn't the only one growing up. 

Derek is, and he's trying, so damn hard, to be the alpha his pack deserves. 

“You did good today, Derek,” he murmurs in the dark, that night, while he almost OD’s on the sheer pleasure of being in Derek's bed again. 

Derek huffs and tells him, grumpy and embarrassed, to shut up. 

He falls asleep in Derek’s arms, smiling. 

~~

Wolves are territorial and Stiles is pack. 

He gets that, knows it on a unspoken level, knows that when Derek rubs against his neck, he’s marking him as pack. 

He gets that, same as he gets the way Derek will reach for him when he is within arms reach, reel him into his side, so that the alpha is flanked by his second, claiming him in front of the pack and their allies, in front of their enemies. 

He knows that Derek allowing Stiles into his bed is just part of that, reminding the betas of where Stiles falls in the pack, something he doesn’t actually understand most of the time but this is Derek and he’s kind of hard to read, so Stiles doesn’t always try. 

He knows it’s a wolf thing, not a human thing, the way Stiles allowing that girl to leave a hickey was a wolf thing. 

Sometimes, he wishes Derek let the human side carry some weight, though. 

*~*

“Oh fuck,” Erica says, and Isaac drops the jar of pickles he’s holding. It shatters in a wave of noise and vinegar, and jerks Erica out of her paralysis, forcing her into motion. 

“You need to go,” she says, urgent, and Stiles freezes. 

Because he’s been waiting for this, for the pack to remember he’s  _ human _ and  _ unnecessary _ and it took a long fucking time but--

“Stiles,” she whispers--why is she whispering--harshly. “Go home! Now. Come back tomorrow.” 

Derek’s arm slides over his shoulder, and he watches Erica’s face fall, watches something like fear twist in Isaac’s eyes, and Boyd--Boyd catches them both by the elbows and hauls them out of the loft, so quickly that Stiles almost doesn’t realize Derek has pulled away from him, is staring at him like he’s a stranger, like--

“What’s going on?” Stiles says, fear and nerves jumping in his gut. “Do we--is there someone new in town? The alpha pack back? Is it Scott? Or do they just really want pickles, because I mean, dude, like their tails were on  _ fire _ .” 

He expects Derek to roll his eyes, to pull away and remind him they don’t  _ have  _ tails. 

Instead, Derek stares at him, as cold and unreadable as the first time Stiles met him. 

“Who was he?”

 

***

 

Derek was the master of denial. 

And if he wasn’t, Stiles was. Between the two of them it was a  wonder anything was ever acknowledged in their pack, and probably why the  _ thing _ between them was still a simmering pot pushed aside and unspoken of. 

But this--Stiles stood in the entry of the loft, his golden eyes wide and startled, and he  _ reeked  _  of it, of a man who wasn’t--

“Who was  _ he?” _ Derek snarled around a mouthful of fangs, and Stiles's back snapped straight. “Who fucked you this time?”

“What the hell gives you the right to ask me that,” he snaps. “I’m not your beta, dude and I’m sure as fuck not your boyfriend, so what makes you think you have any right to know what I’m doing or who I’m doing it with.” 

Derek laughs, a nasty thing and stalks closer. 

A smarter person would run. Stiles, though, has never had much in the way of sense when it came to the supernatural beasties he spent his time with. 

“I don’t need to  _ ask  _ to know what you’re doing, and you fucking know it,” Derek taunts. His hand comes up and he traces Stiles lips, still red and lush, with a claw. “I can smell him here. I can smell his hands on you. Where he put his mouth.” His hands ghost down, almost caressing as he traces the path other hands had taken, the scent so clear it makes Derek ache with fury. “You come to my den, to my goddamn  _ bed _ , reeking of them, and you know it.”

Stiles eyes are wide and shocked and he’s shaking. 

“I know exactly what you  _ did _ ,” Derek spits, bitterly. “I always know. You leave their bed and crawl into mine, and you  _ know _ exactly what you’re doing. You’ve just never been shitty enough to do it after you fuck a guy.” 

“Maybe I do,” Stiles says, his voice shaking just a little. “But you've never given a shit what I do, as long as I'm around to research what you need or talk the betas down when they're ignoring you. So why the hell should you care now?”

“Don’t be a fucking idiot,” Derek snaps. He stares at the boy, at the shock and distress in his eyes, and all of the rage drains away. “I don’t say anything, Stiles. I know what you’re doing but I never say anything. Don’t act like that means I don’t know. Or that I don't care.” 

“Why?” Stiles bursts out. “Fuck, Derek, I  _ want  _ you to say something.” 

“Because it’s  _ your  _ life,” Derek shouts. “It’s your life and I won’t take this from you.” 

“You aren’t  _ taking _ anything I wouldn’t  _ give!”  _

Derek takes a step back, his face closing down and he shakes his head. Puts all the disgust he can manage in his tone as he says, “The same thing you give all of  _ them?  _ No, thanks.”

He turns away,  and he hears the choked furious noise Stiles makes before he (finally) runs. 

**

Distance is one of the worst punishments for a social creature. Even one as antisocial as Derek. 

But in the wake of their fight--and sometimes he wonders if it can even be called that--he is surrounded by distance. 

The human pack members retreat to cluster around Stiles. The werewolves keep coming by the loft, but it’s quick, fleeting check ins before they vanish. 

He can smell Stiles on them, when they are in the loft. He isn’t foolish enough to believe that is pack has been avoiding Stiles the way Derek has. 

But he also knows they don’t blame Stiles for the fight. Stiles doesn’t know how much Derek knows, how much they  _ all _ know, can’t help but know, when he stumbles in after sex with a stranger. 

He can’t know what it means to the pack, to see Stiles emerging from Derek’s bed, sleep rumpled and smelling of contentment. 

He doesn’t know how much it matters,  _ why _ it matters, because Derek hasn’t told him. 

So he endures the distance and the quiet judgment from his pack and tries not to miss Stiles’ warm body next to his. 

*~*

It takes a week before Stiles storms back, a week of near solitude, and Derek is so caught up in the fucking perfection of  _ Stiles _ , not reeking of violence or another body, of sex or alcohol, that for a moment, he doesn’t realize just how  _ furious _ Stiles is. 

He slams into the loft, shoves right up into Derek space and snarls, “If you’ve got a fucking problem with me, we can talk about it. But you don’t get to decide who I fuck or when I fuck them. You don’t get a say in my sex life not when you’ve made it crystal fucking clear that you don’t want a say in it, so next time you get all werewolf-y pissed because someone left a mark on me, or because you smell someone you don’t like, go ahead and do us both a big fucking favor and  _ don’t.”  _

Stiles waves a hand, gesturing to his body in one big flailing move that almost nailed Boyd in the gut because  _ of course _ the pack was standing by to witness this. Of course. 

“This isn’t yours. I’m your pack, but I’m not your goddamn ‘wolf--you don’t get to pick a mate for  me like you did for Erica and don’t think we haven’t all noticed how well  _ that _ didn’t turn out.” 

Derek swallows a snarl and Stiles points at him. “What we’re doing,” and he waves at Derek’s bedroom, ignoring the pack like they don’t exist, “If that’s an issue, Derek, we will stop that right now.” 

And fear seizes in his gut, makes him shake his head, hard, “No. Not a problem. It’s fine, Stiles.”

The pack is watching him, and he can feel their fury. From the way Stiles is shifting, he can too, but he goes right on ignoring them. “Good. Good. Take care of the damn puppies tonight, Dad is gonna bitch if they eat everything in the house again. I’ve been to grocery store three times in the past four days.” 

He spins before Derek can respond, levels a feral grin at the still silent pack, and says firmly. “Stay.” 

Boyd growls, soft and threatening and it chases Stiles’ laugh out of the loft. 

 

~~~

 

The thing is. He doesn’t forgive Derek. Not really. They’ve been dancing around each other for so long that the alpha possessive behavior is--

It’s not fair.

Not when Derek has made it so abundantly clear he isn’t interested, despite allowing Stiles in his bed. 

And it throws everything off for Stiles because if he isn’t Derek’s reluctant second, if he isn’t sharing Derek’s bed for the pack, what is he--why the hell is he even here? 

It shakes him enough that it makes him question his place in the pack. 

And that’s what he can’t forgive. 

~

The first few nights back in Derek’s bed are awkward. 

The kind of weird awkward that reminds Stiles of that time when he accused Derek of murder, and he’s been trying to forget that for a while now, so really it isn’t even  _ fair _ that this, which wasn’t even his fault, is resulting in that level of awkward. 

He rolls around and Derek huffs, all big bad wolf on his side of the bed. 

He yanks Stiles into him, spooning against him and sliding his leg between Stiles ankles, borrowing into the curve of his shoulder to get at the clean scent of his neck. Bites softly, softly, softly. 

Stiles feels tears stinging in his eyes from  _ want.  _

“Stiles?” Derek whispers, his voice almost an unhappy whine, and Stiles pats his hand, fumbling to dry his eyes. 

“I’m fine, Big Guy.” 

He’s lying and they both know it. But Derek doesn’t say anything, just kisses his neck again, and settles against him, and finally settled, he sleeps. 

*~*

Things settle. 

Derek even dates a girl, twice before he decides he doesn’t know enough about her to trust her and won’t risk the pack--something he’s wary of since his misstep with Jennifer. 

Stiles keeps sleeping with other people--once, very briefly, he hooks up with Lydia before they both decide that puts too much strain on the pack. Sometimes, when he’s with Danny, he’ll let a guy suck him off and Derek’s eyes are always unbearably sad when he comes to the loft, those nights, but he keeps his mouth closed, and the pack just kind of watches them. 

It’s almost normal. 

Or maybe it is normal, as normal as his life is ever going to be, and that just means that he fucks strangers, and crawls into the bed of the man he loves, with the people he feels strangely responsible for a room away. 

Maybe normal is going to sleep in the arms of someone he can’t have and waking up hard, getting off in the shower even though he knows Derek can smell it, because the alternative is rubbing himself off on Derek’s leg and since that’s firmly a no-go, he’ll take what he can get. 

Maybe normal doesn’t really apply because he gets that this isn’t, this is so far outside the realm of  _ normal _ they aren’t even on the same continent anymore. 

But then, that’s been true of his life since his best friend became a werewolf and maybe this part of it--he’s ok with. 

 

***

 

“You have to tell him.” 

It’s not the first time Peter has said it. It won’t be the last. 

“It isn’t fair, what you’re doing.”

“When have you ever cared about  _ fair? _ ” Derek snaps. 

Peter stares at him, quietly patient and stupidly understanding and Derek wants to hate him for that. 

Derek  _ does _ hate him for that. 

“He isn’t some girl you’ll throw away,” Peter says quietly. “He’s pack and he matters, to you and the others. Don’t break this because you want something you can’t have.” 

Derek snarls then, whirling to face his uncle, eyes flaring red. Peter doesn’t even flinch. If anything his expression goes a little bit sadder, more pitying. 

Derek  _ hates _ that look. “Tell him, Derek. Tell him what this means. Tell him  _ why _ you won’t touch him. You owe him that much.” 

Some of the fury leeches out of him and his shoulders slump, helpless and defeated. 

“He’ll leave.” 

“If you don’t tell him, he’ll leave when he finds out.” Peter says. And then, because he is Peter, and even when his intentions are good, he’s a cold bastard, he says, “I thought Paige and Kate taught you about taking things without consent.” 

Derek roars, loud enough that the windowpanes rattle, shifts and launches himself at Peter before he can think it through, but he crashes into empty space, claws swiping through nothing, and the sound of the door clanging shut on the empty loft. 

**

The loft is quiet--the pack cleared out a while ago when Derek snarled at  _ Isaac  _ of all people. 

Stiles is nibbling at a straw, his eyes kind of lazily moving over the tablet he’s holding, almost like he doesn’t realize that they’re gone, like he’s alone with Derek. 

Maybe he doesn’t. 

Or maybe it’s so normal, now, that it doesn’t bear consideration, it’s as comfortable being alone in Derek’s space as it is to be in his own space. 

He feels safe here. Content. Happy. 

“I was fifteen.” Derek blurts out, and Stiles blinks at him, owl-eyed and confused. 

“When I met Kate. It was after Paige, and I was a fucking mess, and she--she seduced me and used me and I was a stupid kid that should have known better.” 

“You were a kid she took advantage of,” Stiles snaps, jumping to his defense even against himself. 

Because isn’t that what Stiles was. 

He was the fiercest protector in the pack, and how did Derek ever think he’d get judged for this? 

Maybe because he’d spent all the years since it happened judging himself. 

“I--Stiles, I can’t,” he whispers. “I can’t do to you what she did.” 

Stiles frowns, and shifts. Puts the tablet aside and stands, moving until he’s in front of Derek, standing too close with his big whiskey dark eyes and his lips that are begging to be kissed and his heartbeat that’s too fast, too steady, the drumbeat Derek lives his life to. 

“Derek, you aren’t taking anything from me.” 

He flinches then and Stiles hesitates, his heartbeat going rabbit fast nervous before he says softly. “Are you?” 

“When you--you sleep in my bed. It means more than you think.” 

“What does it mean?” Derek swallows hard, choking on the words he needs to say, the ones he can’t bring himself to say. 

“Does it mean I’m different from the rest of the pack? Does it mean you look at me different than someone like Erica? Than the other betas? Does it mean they know I’m different--that I matter in a way they don’t.” 

“They  _ matter. _ ” 

“But they’re not your second. They’re not the one you let in your den, in your bed. They’re your betas, but they’re not  _ yours.  _ Not like I am. _ ”  _ He reaches up, touches the place where Derek bit him, months ago now. “You haven't claimed them.”

Derek is shaking as he stares at Stiles, at the raw knowledge in Stiles eyes. 

“You  _ knew _ ?” 

Stiles rolls his eyes. “I’m not stupid, Derek.”

He looks away and Stiles’ heart stutters in his chest. “That’s why you didn’t tell me. You don’t want me.” 

“I don’t--I don’t want to claim a  _ child.”  _

Stiles flinches and his scent goes hurt and subdued. “Got it. No worries.” 

He doesn’t even seem angry as he leaves the loft, the echoes of his feet dying away slowly as Derek stands alone and lonely. 

~*~

Stiles pulls away. He doesn’t disappear, not like he has in the past. He’s  _ present.  _ He’s in the loft, between Lydia and Allison, talking to Scott. Even plotting with Peter, something that always makes Derek nervous even if he is pleased Stiles is the only one who can bring any control to Peter. 

He’s present. He’s exactly what Derek’s second in command should be, the perfect counterpoint to the Alpha. He’s firm and protective and attentive and fucking  _ perfect _ and he does it all without ever looking at Derek. 

Without coming near him. 

Without ever stepping in his room or curling up in his bed. 

Every time Derek gets close to him, he can smell the guilt and hurt coming off of Stiles and he doesn’t know how to fix this, how to tell him he’s got nothing to feel guilty for. 

He sneaks into Stiles room late one night, when Stiles is out with the Sheriff. He’s in his favorite spot when Stiles stumbles in, and he can smell the traces of someone else--a girl, someone that seems familiar even though Derek can’t place her--on his skin, but he doesn’t smell like sex. 

Stiles doesn’t even seem surprised to see Derek, and he misses the days when Stiles flailed in shock and surprise. 

He doesn’t miss the fear though. It’s nice that  _ that’s _ gone. 

“What are you doin’ here?” Stiles sighs, stripping off his shirt and Derek’s hands tighten painfully. 

“I miss you.” 

“Derek--” 

“I told you, but you already knew, and you  _ let me _ , even though you knew. Why are you mad at me if you  _ knew?”  _

Stiles laughs, and the scent of guilt spikes, enough that it makes Derek whine, quiet, in the back of his throat. “I don’t want to be Kate. I don’t want to take anything you aren’t willing to give me. Which means, you gotta talk to me.” 

Derek stares at him. 

“You gotta tell me, big guy. You gotta tell me what you want. Because you don’t want me.” 

“I want you,” Derek says, truthfully. And it feels so damn good, to say it. To be honest, finally. 

“But?” Stiles says, softly. 

Derek can feel Stiles’s breath against his skin, can feel the heat of him, so close he could touch. 

He doesn’t. 

“But I can’t have you. Stiles, you're sixteen.” 

“Seventeen,” Stiles corrects, smiling sadly. 

“Too young. Fuck, Stiles.” He catches the boy by the nape of the neck, squeezes and draws him closer, until his forehead rests against Stiles, and they’re sharing the same air. “I can’t do what she did. I can’t.” 

Stiles nods, and it hurts a little. 

“I know, Derek.”  

He watches as Stiles slides into bed and crawls in after him and Stiles settles against him with a sigh. “What do we do?” he whispers and Derek tightens his grip on the boy because he doesn’t know. 

 

***

 

Going back to normal--their normal, the normal that makes Derek relax and the pack happy and puts Stiles in his bed, soft and sleepy and warm--takes time. Stiles stays away, careful of him. There’s a hesitance in their relationship that stings because it’s new. 

Even when they hated each other, when they battered themselves against each other in anger and useless fights--even then, they did not have this cautious hesitation that makes something in his gut ache with loss and want. 

He knows that every day, every monster of the week, every late night research session eases them closer to each other, closer to what they had, what he somehow broke, but Derek is still wary, still distant, still stiff and still on his side of the bed and Stiles  _ hates  _ it. 

Then they go up against a kelpie, and Derek does something stupid and risky, something so fucking  _ Derek _ it makes Stiles furious, and he dove in after the bastard, and ok, so that wasn’t actually a good move--something he realizes belatedly, when he’s being dragged under the water so cold he’s actually kinda surprised it’s not frozen, and the grip on him is so tight it’s crushing his ribs and he’s pretty sure he’ll die down here. 

Which sucks, because he never even got to fix things with Derek.

He loses some time, loses consciousness, wakes up to the sound of screaming and Derek’s roar, and the pack is snarling. 

**

Derek is furious. He throws the pack out, even kicks Peter out in an impressive fit of temper that Stiles hasn’t seen since before Jennifer. 

Then he pushes Stiles into the bathroom and strips him to his boxers with an efficiency that leaves no room to hope for anything more. It's not about sex, never will be, and Derek's hands on him are gentle only in deference to the whole almost dying. 

He climbs into the tub and then tugs on Stiles until they're both there, Derek’s body pressed to Stiles back, a long line of solid and heat and the icy cold  _ fear _ that had been wrapped around him since the kelpie struck loosens a little under the warm water and the soft scent of lavender and Derek. 

And Derek. 

In the warm water, he’s safe, and Derek holds him, rubs his soap into Stiles’ skin, until he’s scrubbed away the ice and mud and blood. He drains the water and refills the tub and never releases Stiles. Even when he is drying Stiles, dressing him in clean sweats that are overly big and hang obscenely low on his narrow hips, he never really lets go of the younger man. 

He clings to Stiles like he never plans to let him go. 

*~*

It’s easier, after that. Nothing changes, really, in Derek’s behavior. But after that night, when he cared for Stiles, when everything was stripped away by fear and worry--neither of them can lie to each other anymore. There’s something new and freeing about looking at Derek and seeing love bright in his eyes, seeing want and hunger and fond exasperation. 

It’s intoxicating. 

And every time Stiles stares into another pair of eyes, sees them go shiny with lust--it carves something out of him. It loses it’s appeal, the meaningless hookups, the sex with strangers. 

When everything--everyone--he wants is standing just out of reach, something he can see and touch even if he cannot claim it--the desire to be anywhere but with Derek, with the family that they’ve built--it fades away.

Until he stops leaving, even when things are quiet in Beacon Hills, and there is no threat, even when the pack gathers for no reason other than they are happiest together. He doesn’t leave for the parties with strangers, people separate from the pack,  _ humans. _

Sometimes, he sees his dad, eyes a little worried as he ducks out of the house, headed to Derek’s loft. Sometimes, he sees the same concern reflected in Derek’s gaze.

But the warnings and concern remain unspoken. 

After all this time, after all they’ve gone through, together and alone, to get here--Derek has finally stopped fighting Stiles and allowing his decision. 

It’s about fucking time. 

 

~~~

 

The thing is. What they have works. It’s not everything he wants--but it’s everything he’ll take. 

Sometimes Stiles will watch him, like he’s waiting for something. 

His birthday is coming, inching closer and Derek wonders what Stiles will do, then. 

It takes a little time to realize that Stiles has stopped sleeping with other people. That the pack doesn’t try to pull Stiles into their puppy piles, doesn’t so much as blink when Stiles tugs Derek into their bedroom--and it is, theirs, undeniably--with a loose grip on his wrist and a clumsy wave. 

When he began building his pack, he never expected to find a second, a strong right hand that he could lean on. His uncle had been Talia’s and for a time, he thought he would be Laura’s, thought he’d be good at it. 

But then, he never expected Stiles, with his sharp eyes and big smile, with his clumsy jerky movement and his gentle hands, and his scent, with his persistence, sliding under his skin, and sticking there, the fucking stubborn determination to  _ stay _ until he wasn’t an irritating splinter, he was a piece of Derek, the shard that Derek built his life around. 

~~

Stiles shifts in his arms, the sleepy stretch that he gives when he’s first waking, and Derek burrows closer, presses his lips and nose to the curve of his neck where the scent of him is strongest. They’d spent a late night with the pack, the humans getting drunk while the ‘wolves watched enviously until Lydia mixed up a batch of wolfsbane laced punch and most of the pack got drunk with them. They had graduated, and no one else died, and that was worth celebrating, so Derek watched with something like bemused tolerance, and when Stiles was slurring his speech and getting a little too handsy with Lydia, he tugged the boy into their bed, and gone to sleep wrapped up in the scent of contentment and Stiles and alcohol. 

It’s strange, to smell that combination without the scent of sex on him, and it makes Derek ache. 

From happiness, that Stiles is here, that he doesn’t smell like a stranger, that he can taste arousal curling through Stiles’ scent. 

He shivers a little, and draws Stiles further into him with a hand on his hip and Stiles whines, rutting back and---

Derek lets him. Holds him with a hand on his hip and one in Stiles hair, his lips moving against Stiles throat while he rolls against him, hips moving in these dirty little hitches that makes Derek want to snarl, wants to roll the younger man on his stomach and thrust against his ass. 

He doesn’t. Not even when Stiles moves, takes his cock in his hand, breathless as he jerks himself off. “Oh, fuck, big guy, what are--lemme do this, please. Tell me this is ok, Derek, tell me you want this, you want me.” Stiles begs, and Derek fits his teeth to the pale skin of his neck delicately, a sharp bruising bite that has Stiles’s hips jerking and him crying out, coming in wet waves over his fist. 

Derek draws him on his back and leans over him, taking in the sleepy sated smile, the drowsy eyes that watch him with hopeful caution, the way his stomach gleams with come, his cock, still wet and red and hard, and he wants. 

He  _ wants _ . 

Carefully, so carefully, he leans over Stiles, and inhales, scenting him, the scent of just  _ them _ , of sex and Stiles and pack and  _ them, _ something he never thought he’d get, without the scent of strangers on him. Stiles’s fingers find his hair and he lies there, pliant and content as Derek takes what little he will allow himself, so much more than he should take, so much less than Stiles would give. 

~*~

Erica notices first the change in Stiles scent first. Derek watches it, torn between pride and horror 

Stiles takes two steps out of their room, and her head snaps up, her eyes narrowing as a delighted smirk slips over her face. He makes a noise, a low growl, and she laughs in answer, before turning back to her coffee. 

There are days when he doesn’t understand why he chose Erica, when she’s snapping at him, a live wire of fury and stubbornness and temper that rivaled his own. 

But. 

Like this, when her hair is pulled loose and messy at the back of her head and her face is bare and young and innocently beautiful, when she is whip smart and fearless--this is when he misses his sister most. 

Erica would have liked Laura, and he would have been decimated by them together. 

She would have made, he thinks, a good second. If Stiles had not been there, sliding so determinedly into the pack, into the place that is no longer  _ his  _  but  _ theirs _ , he thinks. 

In a life that isn’t this one, he could have loved Erica, been happy with her, led a thriving pack with her support. 

Stiles bumps into his shoulder, windmilling a little as he mumbles incoherently, and Derek rights him silently, presses a cup of black coffee into his hands and watches Erica smile triumphantly behind her mug. 

In another life, they might have been wonderful together. 

But in this one life, there is only room for Stiles at his side. 

 

***

Sometimes, he thinks they’ll change. 

He’ll see Derek watching him while the pack mills around them, while he works a spell with Lydia because other kids spend their gap year backpacking across Europe, but he’s spending his with Lydia and Deaton, learning everything they need to know so that he will be the strongest Emissary this side of the Rockies. 

He’ll wake up and feel Derek pressed closer than he would normally allow, and Derek won’t push him away when he strokes himself hard, when he comes, gasping Derek’s name. 

He’ll see the curious and hopeful looks from the pack, and even his father, who invites Derek over for a meal that makes Stiles so tense he actual bolts and throws up before he comes back, a little pale and shaky until Derek’s hand finds the nape of his neck, gently reassuring as he squeezes and gives Stiles that steady stare that Stiles used to hate, the one that used to burn with all it’s demands, and he was sure--so fucking  _ sure _ \--that it would burn his life down all around him. He doesn’t know when that burning gaze became a warmth he craved, the white hot light he lived his life by. 

He thinks, sometimes, they’ll change. After graduation and his birthday, and there is a little disappointment, when he’s honest, that old familiar wash of anger and sting of rejection. 

But it’s easier, now, to let it go. 

To remember what they are is bigger than the sex they don’t have, that the love they’ve built, the life they’ve created, is more than that. 

He thinks, sometimes, they’ll change. 

But he thinks, too, that he’ll be just as content if they don’t. 

*

“Are you happy?” 

The question had been whispered, secret quiet in the dark, against his hair, and he’d been so far into sleep he couldn’t shake it’s grip, tugged too far into the arms of rest by the happiness of the pack and the quiet of their room, of Derek wrapped warm and steady around him. 

He’d fallen asleep before he could answer, before he could even process the spike of alarm the question had brought, quickly smothered. 

It tugs hims back into wakefulness, early, earlier even than his ‘wolf, and that’s rare enough that he twists in Derek’s arms, to take it in. 

He’ll never get over the beauty of Derek Hale asleep in his arms. Never quite gets over the way it makes him go soft, his face relaxing, something like a smile tugging at his lips, his lashes heavy and sweet against the arch of his cheekbones, his mouth open just a little as he breathes. 

Like this, he looks like he should--like a man who hadn’t lost everything and fought through hell for the little bit of happiness he’d created, who held what he wanted most at arms length for safety and sanity. 

Like this, he looks like the man Derek could have been, if life had been a little kinder. 

He looks like the man Stiles could love forever. 

Stiles smiles and something settles in his chest, the aching want Scott proposing to Kira tugged free settles back into place, the solid warmth of Derek. He crawls out of bed and Derek murmurs, sounding impossibly young and vulnerable as he mumbles, “Stiles?” 

Stiles tugs his pants on, and grabs his phone. “Gotta go home, big guy.”

Derek watches him, eyes wide and worried and Stiles steps up to him, leaning down to brush his lips over Derek’s forehead. Derek’s hands clench on his hips, helpless and longing. 

“This is good, Sourwolf. What we have here. Us, the pack. It’s good, isn’t it?” 

Derek nods, his eyes wide and startled and Stiles smiles. Hums, almost to himself and kisses him again, a gentle fleeting press of lips. Whispers, “This is enough. Just this, is enough.” 

He goes, before Derek can say anything, and whistles cheerfully as he drives through Beacon Hills.

**

It isn't enough. Derek listens to the words and his heart, to the scent--and he knows Stiles is telling the truth, that this is  _ true.  _

And it isn't enough. 

Derek wants  _ more.  _

This thing they’ve built together, slow and steady over the years and the dying and hurting each other--this life that they share, that they have  _ earned _ . It is what he wants. And it’s not enough. 

Derek wants everything. 

It is a strange thing to realize. That he can have this. That Stiles is here, after all the time and danger, after all the other people he allowed in his bed, after all their mistakes. 

They are both still here. 

*~*

When Stiles settles in bed next to him, next, its easy. 

He rolls close, slides a leg between Derek’s, hums happily as he nestles closer and it's easy.

To lean down and catch the noise against with his mouth and eat the surprised gasp from Stiles mouth. 

It's never been easy, this thing that they share. 

It's been fighting steps and the world and growing together and apart. 

But this. This step. It is  _ easy _ and Stiles laughter is everything he wants as he rolls Stiles under him. 

  
  



End file.
